


i've got you, brother

by see_addy_write



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Pre-Canon, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 15:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18252467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/see_addy_write/pseuds/see_addy_write
Summary: The system hasn't been kind to Michael, and Max struggles with things he cannot change and how to be there for his brother.Set in the pod squad's high school years, a few months before prom & the events of Rosa's death.





	i've got you, brother

**Author's Note:**

> hi again! i have now posted three fics in three days, which is something absolutely unheard of for me -- but this show keeps giving me ideas, and writing them comes relatively easy. i don't expect many people to read this one, since it's gen and focused on brotherly relationships rather than anything else, but as i've said on other fics, i'm super interested in this dynamic. 
> 
> i'm not going to lie, the inspiration behind writing this fic was literally just the fact that i have a hard time believing Iz and Max just let Michael sleep in his truck in the middle of winter without kicking up a fuss. additional inspiration came from roswellprompt's meme on tumblr, which was 'sibling bonding.' 
> 
> i'm seeaddywrite over there; feel free to come flail along with me about the show! :)
> 
> oops, and before i forget, title comes from the song _Brother_ by Kodaline.

At sixteen years old, Max Evans knew he shouldn’t be afraid of the dark. And he wasn’t anymore, not really— just the strangeness that came with being separated from all people and alone in his bedroom, but still able, on some level, to feel them. 

With Isobel, Max never blinked. She’d been a warm, comforting presence in the back of his mind for as long as he could remember— probably longer — and he often focused on that feeling when he was stressed, like some sort of psychic security blanket. It was the one part of their alien heritage Max allowed himself to embrace. But now, even with Isobel’s slumbering contentment humming in the back of his mind with the Evans house dark and quiet around him, Max could still feel something... and it wasn’t good. 

He blamed that anxiety for why he was so jumpy that night, even at three o’clock in the morning when any sane person — or alien — should be asleep. Every single little noise of the house settling, or a breeze rifling through the leaves of the trees, had Max on edge. What the hell was wrong with him? He was a teenager, for crying out loud, he should be over jumping at shadows.

Continuing the mental lecture about his own pathetic fears, Max forced himself to roll over in bed, smacking at his pillow like that would somehow make it more comfortable and allow him to sleep. Firmly, he closed his eyes and started counting backwards from one hundred, determined to get at least a few hours of rest before he had to go to school and face the trig midterm the next day.

As he hit number forty-six, there was a loud thump outside his window, on the roof. Max’s eyes flew open, and he sat bolt upright in the bed, comforter pooling around his waist. 

_There’s no one there,_ he told himself forcefully. _It’s a bird or a squirrel or something, and I’m over-reacting, just like the last ten times._

The inner monologue didn’t stop Max from climbing out of his bed, grabbing the baseball bat that sat in the corner of his room collecting dust, and turning toward the window. The curtains covered the glass; if he really wanted to look outside, he was going to have to move them. 

Gathering his courage, Max crept toward the window, bat clutched in his fingers. There was something— someone— moving out there. The shadow was definitely human-shaped, and definitely coming closer. Trying to get in. Immediately, Max panicked; he had to protect himself. What if the intruder got past him and went for Isobel? His parents? 

Heart pounding hard against his ribs, Max shoved the curtains back and brandished his baseball bat— only for the intruder to roll in the suddenly-unlocked and open window and land in a heap on the floor at Max’s feet. 

“What the— _Michael_?” His voice was too loud for the middle of the night, but Max couldn’t help himself. 

The intruder, otherwise known as Max’s best friend, hushed him as he pushed himself to his feet. It took longer than it should have, Max noticed, and set down the baseball bat so he could grab the other boy’s arm and help him. Instead of helping, though, Michael hissed in pain and yanked his arm away, landing him back on his ass in the middle of Max’s bedroom. 

Guilt lanced through Max when he realized that he’d just hurt his brother, and he dropped his hold easily, kneeling next to the other boy instead of trying to get him up, this time. “You know, when I said you were always welcome here, I’d imagined you coming through the front door,” he said, trying to keep his tone light as he squinted at the form in front of him, trying to assess the damage this time. Expressing any kind of concern over Michael’s living situation always just made him shut down; Max knew better than to let the impulse show until he’d made sure he was in one piece. 

“Didn’t want to wake your parents up,” Michael grunted. 

He’d always had a weird thing about the Evans’ — they’d invited him for dinner or to stay the night plenty of times, but Michael’d always turned them down. He said it was because it was too weird, playing happy family when he had to go back to the group home afterward, but secretly, Max suspected it was more Michael holding a grudge against the couple for not taking him home when they took his siblings. Honestly, Max couldn’t blame him. On nights like this, he blamed them, too. 

Though, this was the first night that had gone _exactly_ like this. Michael had never snuck out after midnight to climb in Max’s window before. Showed up as soon as the older Evans’ pulled out of the driveway, yes. Called Max from the Crashdown asking for a lift, yes. Showed up at school with a busted rib that Max had broken his own rules to heal, because Michael looked so miserable that he couldn’t take it, once. There had been plenty of reasons to worry about his friend already, but something told Max it was about to get worse. 

Slowly, Max got up from the floor and hit the switch next to the door and flooding the room with light. When he turned back around, Michael was squinting up at him through a black eye, his lower lip split and bloody and the rest of his face pale. Fury began to bubble in Max’s stomach when he began to put the pieces together, and he kept his mouth firmly shut until he was sure nothing stupid would escape. 

Finally, after several minutes of Michael looking awkwardly off to one side, like he didn’t quite want to meet Max’s eyes, the slightly taller boy finally got himself moving. He offered a hand, which was taken, and helped his brother to his feet, then pushed him carefully backward until the backs of his knees bumped the mattress and he was forced to sit. 

“How bad?” he asked finally, when he began to feel that the silence might strangle him. “Do I need to get the first aid kit?” To the untrained eye, that would sound like the worst case scenario — like if the first aid kit wasn’t needed, Michael was okay. The boys knew better. If the first aid kit was needed, that meant the wounds weren’t bad enough to warrant healing. 

Michael looked down at his hands, sighing. “Dunno. Didn’t exactly stick around to check. Shoulder hurts like a bitch, though.”

Jaw set, Max looked pointedly at the oversized hoodie that hid most of Michael’s skin from view. “Can you get that off yourself, or do you need help?” 

He managed to take it off on his own, but watching him struggle made it painful for both of them. When the sweatshirt was finally on the floor and Michael was down to a torn up pair of jeans and a white undershirt, it got harder to stay calm. The lights in the room flickered with the force of his anger, a visceral, protective reaction that Max couldn’t have stopped if he’d had advance warning. 

“This was those guys, again?” He demanded, not bothering to hide the rough quality to his voice, though he did manage to get his powers under control with an act of stubborn will. That was something they’d all had plenty of practice with over the years. Though how Michael managed to keep his under wraps while people did things like this to him, Max would never know. If they’d switched places and powers, he had no doubt that he would have killed someone by now. But Michael’s control had always been better than his by necessity. “What the hell is their problem _this_ time?” 

The boys’ home that Michael lived in was one of the top-rated facilities in the state. The online reviews said that there were on-staff counselors, community outing opportunities, an outdoor pool, and constant adult supervision. The reality wasn’t quite so pretty. There was a group of teenagers, all close to aging out of the program, as Michael was, who’d taken exception to Michael’s defense of one of the younger boys in the home. So instead of bullying the kid, the three of them had turned their attention to Michael, and were much less kind to him. They’d started small, leaving tiny bruises and shadows under his eyes when he was nervous about what they’d do while he was asleep, but judging by the state of him now, things had escalated far past that. 

A black eye and split lip were the least of Michael’s problems. The shoulder he’d been favoring was black and blue the whole way round, swollen and stiff and obviously out of place. There was blood staining the white shirt he wore over his side, suggesting there was more hidden beneath the fabric, and one of his wrists was a large, mottled bruise, the shape of which suggested it had been stomped on. 

“Christ, Michael, this can’t keep happening! They’re going to kill you, one of these days!” Michael could hold his own in a fight, Max knew, but against three guys, there wasn’t much he could do. Besides, when the staff inevitably showed up to break things up, if he was throwing punches, he looked like the instigator and would get himself in trouble. It was a no-win situation, and Max was utterly helpless in the face of it. 

“They’re not going to get the chance.” There was a small, satisfied smile on the other boy’s face that Max couldn’t make sense of. “You know the old man out at the garage started paying me, a while back, for the work I’ve been doing for him. He gave me a truck, said it was mine to keep if I could get it running.” 

Max listened with one ear, the rest of his mind devoted to what his power would be able to take care of and what he’d have to handle on his own. He suspected the shoulder would need setting before he healed anything; what if the muscle and joint healed around the current position, instead of the right one? Everything else, including whatever wounds he hadn’t seen yet, seemed to be something that he could trust his powers to take care of. 

“What does that have to do with the guys at the group home making your life a living hell?” he demanded, once he’d started paying attention to the conversation again. “Running them over isn’t exactly going to make things better.”

Michael scoffed. “I’m not going to run them over, dumbass. I’m going to stay in the truck.” 

Silence reigned between the two of them, until Max stood up abruptly, gesturing with a sharp wave of his hand for Michael to lay down. “They must have hit your head pretty hard,” he said tersely, wishing that he believed his own words. This would be a much more tenable conversation if he thought Michael would start talking sense when he healed him. 

“What are you talking about, man?” 

“That’s the only reason I can come up with that you’d seriously think living in a truck is a good idea,” Max said bluntly, and plowed forward, mentally promising himself that they’d talk about that particular moment of insanity later, after Michael was in one piece again. “We need to set your arm before I do anything else. I don’t know what’ll happen if I try to heal it while it’s out of place like that.” 

This kind of thing made Max very, very nervous. Using his power always did, because every time, he couldn’t stop his imagination from conjuring image after image of being torn away from his family by men with huge guns and face masks and vivisected, like he’d seen done in sci-fi films. But this was more than that; Max was a healer, maybe, but he was no doctor. Everything he’d learned about the human body, he’d learned in AP Anatomy class, and his only experience with setting shoulders came from watching YouTube videos after a similar injury would have sent Isobel to the hospital, if his parents knew about it. He’d learned to set broken bones the same way, and a large variety of other non-life threatening injuries. Thankfully, none of them had ever been sick enough to warrant a trip to the ER, and Max was determined to keep it that way. Blood tests and extra scrutiny were things that the three of them needed to avoid at all costs. 

Brow furrowed, Max turned away from the bed and opened a drawer in his desk, rummaging around until he found two bottles of nail polish remover that he’d hidden there in case of emergency. He took the cap off of one and handed it to Michael, and set the other on the desk, for after they’d shoved his shoulder back into joint. 

“I’m not going to keep living there, Max,” Michael told him fiercely, after downing about half of the bottle. “I’d rather freeze to death in my truck bed than go anywhere near those fuckers again. And I know you’re going to tell me to talk to the counselor, or whatever, but nothing’s going to change. It’ll be fine; it’s only until we graduate, and then I’m outta this shithole town, anyway.” 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, hard, Max took up his position next to the bed and held out his hands, trying to keep them from shaking. “Find something to bite on,” he ordered, pointedly ignoring the subject. “If you scream, you’ll definitely wake up mom and dad, and they’re going to insist on taking you to the hospital.” He paused, considering, then asked, “You want me to go get Iz?” 

Michael’s expression was incredulous, and pain and irritation at Max’s dismissal of the truck conversation obvious, too. “Why would I want you to get Isobel? She’d just freak out, and probably insist on marching back to the group home and making things a hundred times worse. Let her sleep.”

Max exhaled slowly at the response. The other boy was right, of course. Isobel would be furious if she saw him now — but she was also a hell of a lot better at taking care of people than Max was, healing powers notwithstanding. She could hold Michael’s hand while Max set his shoulder, at the very least, and offer some kind of comfort. But if that wasn’t what he wanted, Max knew better than to force it on him. 

“If you’re sure.” One of the leather belts lying on the floor were their best bet for something to bite on, so Max handed on to Michael, who gave him a dubious look but shoved it between his teeth. None of them wanted to be exposed — Max took the blame for most of their rules and secrets, but that was one thing they all agreed on. No matter what, they stayed under the radar. _Never be exceptional._ That was the rule they lived by. That was how they stayed safe, and they needed to keep it that way. Even when it sucked. 

Taking a minute to brace himself, and giving Michael a chance to do the same, Max closed his eyes, took a long, deep breath, and lifted the injured arm as gently as he could. Somehow, despite already being bone-white, Michael went paler, but he didn’t make a sound. Lining arm up with the joint took the longest amount of time, and Max didn’t dare rush and mess up. He kept his eyes firmly on what he was doing, not allowing them to stray to Michael’s face at all for fear the pain in his expression would paralyze him. Hurting his family was not in Max’s nature, and it broke something in him every time. 

Then, without warning, Max bit down hard on his lower lip as he snapped the shoulder back into place. He could _feel_ Michael scream, mentally, and wondered if it would be enough to wake Isobel, despite no real noise making it past his lips, aside from a quiet whimper. He focused on her presence in the back of his head, and found her still asleep, if not quite as peacefully, and breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Here,” Max said hoarsely, shoving the second bottle of acetone into Michael’s good hand and supporting him when he sat up, just to make sure he wouldn’t faint or list to the side and hurt himself again. Michael guzzled the bottle in a few moments, and the empty container landed on the floor next to the first. His color improved a little, after that, but Max was done watching him suffer. He reached across his brother, pushing his hand under the over-large collar of his shirt, until his palm was more-or-less over his thudding heartbeat. 

“Wait!” Michael shoved his hand away, eyes narrowed. “They know they beat the shit out of me, Max. If you heal me, they’re going to notice.” 

“So?” Max’s retort was immediate, and for once, it was good to be the one not panicking about whether or not they’d be found out and dragged away. “Who are they going to tell, Michael? Who’s going to believe them? They’ll probably just think you’re better at covering up your injuries than they realized. No one’s going to jump to the magic alien healing conclusion.” On another night, Max might have agreed. He may have let himself be convinced by his own arguments — things he’s said a hundred times before about why he couldn’t use his powers to heal people, both to Isobel and Michael and to himself. But he was tired of failing Michael over and over again. Tired of watching him get the short end of the stick. And Max was damned if he was going to do it again tonight. 

“We need to be smart about this. Most of them are your rules, Max, we can’t just —” 

Arguing had a time and place, but this wasn’t it. Impatiently, he shoved his hand back into place and concentrated, shoving his healing power to the forefront of his mind and forcing it to work for him. It took a Herculean effort every time he did this, since he used it so rarely, and he knew he’d be sick immediately afterward, but Max didn’t care. The power surged again, the lights flickering with the force of the energy he was shoving into Michael’s body, but it steadied out again without any of the bulbs exploding — the ones in his room, at least. 

When he couldn’t hold on anymore, Max slumped to the side of the bed and curled forward around his knees, trying to breathe through the sudden migraine and onslaught of nausea. Michael cursed and jumped up — no longer moving like he was in pain, Max noted distractedly — and grabbed the nearest trashcan. If he wasn’t seeing double, he might have glared at Michael for assuming he would be sick … but, of course he was. It was fast, though, and the acetone shoved into his hand right afterward helped steady the world again. Max sipped slowly in an effort not to exacerbate the churning in his stomach, and he squinted up at Michael. “Did it work?” he asked hoarsely. “Back in one piece?” 

The other boy gave him a dark look, but rolled both of his shoulders and held up his formerly broken wrist to show the unmarked skin. Everything was healed, as it should be, and Max hadn’t expended that effort for nothing, thank God. The acetone did its work quickly, and after a few minutes, Max was able to sit up and look at Michael, bracing himself for the eruption of temper that was sure to come. 

Michael surprised him. Instead, he reached down to take off his sneakers and kicked them to the door, and lay back down in the bed next to Max with no hesitation. They’d done this before — usually with Isobel between them when she was having a bad day, or when Max couldn’t drag himself out of the bed with the weight of his depression anchoring him there. It was rare that Michael let them surround him, and Max took this for the gesture he was sure it was meant to be. Flopping down on his back in a carefully choreographed movement, Max made sure his shoulder was pressed against Michael’s in silent, subtle support. 

“Want to get the lights?” 

The slow raise of Michael’s eyebrow was well-deserved; Max never asked his siblings to use their powers for anything frivolous — or anything at all, actually. But they were both exhausted by now, and getting up sounded like a special sort of torture. Surely this once, when there was no one else to see, it wouldn’t matter? Especially since Max knew full well that Michael did use his powers when he was alone, and Max wasn’t there to caution him. 

“I’m sorry, did Max Evans just ask me to use my powers so he can be lazy? Are there pigs flying around outside? Should I be looking for a plague of locusts or something?” 

Max groaned, and dropped an arm over his face. “Fine. We’ll just sleep with the lights on, then. I’m not getting up.” 

There was a moment of silence, and Max uncovered his eyes in time to see Michael reach a hand out toward the light switch. The room went dark, and Max exhaled in relief. He’d learned years ago that the best way to get Michael to really talk was to wait until he was exhausted, and wait patiently in the dark with some form of low-pressure physical contact. Sometimes, the waiting game took longer than others, but it almost always worked. 

Tonight, apparently, Michael was upset enough that he was ready to talk. “I can’t stay there, Max. Not for another full year. I’ll lose my fucking mind.” There was a desperation in the words that suggested Michael needed Max to understand, rather than lecture, and for now, he supposed he could do that. He didn’t know what he’d do if Michael actually ended up living in his truck, and God knew what Isobel would say if that happened and she found out Max knew about it. . . but for now, he’d do his best to be supportive. 

“I know,” he said simply, and he did. Michael wasn’t safe in that group home, no matter what all of the adults in their lives seemed to think. “But you’re sure we can’t . . . talk to someone? The counselor at school, maybe, if not the one at the group home? Or one of the science teachers, who think you’re the next Einstein? They’d want to help, Michael.” 

Bitter laughter filled the darkness. “What can they do, Max? If there was a foster situation that would take me, I’d be there now. Group homes are a last resort. Best case scenario, I tell them and they feel sorry for me, maybe don’t make me take midterms. Worst case? They actually do something, and I end up getting shipped out of Roswell to another place for senior year, where I don’t know anyone. Again. And trust me, the foster homes I was in outside of Roswell made this place look like heaven.” Michael moved closer, then, so that their sides were pressed together, rather than just their shoulders, and Max was careful to stay still so he didn’t chase him off without meaning to. “Come on, Max. Think about it. Even if that sounded like a good idea to you, what’s to say wherever I ended up wouldn’t be worse?”

“Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t,” Max muttered, willing to concede the point. “Okay. What about our parents, then?” Max would have no problem sharing a room if it meant that Michael was out of that damned home and not getting passed around from place to place somewhere Max and Isobel couldn’t follow. And the Evans parents usually gave them whatever they wanted — surely, if both Max and Isobel asked? And if not, maybe it would be worth the risk to have Isobel try to break into their minds and convince them it was a good idea. Morally, the decision was definitely questionable, but there was nothing Max wouldn’t do to protect his siblings. Even if it meant betraying the people who had adopted them. 

“Max, come on. They didn’t want me when I was seven — they don’t want me now. Not to mention it would have the whole town staring and asking questions and pulling all sorts of attention we don’t want.” Sometimes, Max wondered if Michael could read his mind as well as Isobel; how else could he have known exactly what the tentative plan was? 

“It might be worth it,” Max said slowly, and pressed his lips together immediately after, both hating himself for his reluctance and feeling relieved that Michael had talked him out of it. It was a fine balance, in Max’s mind: the need to protect his family versus the need to protect Michael, even when they were one and the same. It wasn’t fair that the other boy had been forced to live like this while Max and Isobel got to grow up in a safe, happy home — and it certainly wasn’t fair that Max was making him be the voice of reason when it was definitely in his best interests not to be. But that was Michael. Prickly and temperamental, sometimes, but the most unselfish person Max knew. 

“Worth getting found out, taken prisoner, and experimented on for the rest of our lives? Not fucking likely, Max. Don’t put that on me. You know damn well I’d rather let those assholes beat the shit out of me every night for the rest of my life than do that. So just — drop it, okay? I’ve got this.” 

Living in a truck didn’t sound like Michael had it under control. But what else was he supposed to say? Max didn’t have anything to offer, no better solutions. Not yet, anyway. Maybe he could come up with something after a few hours of sleep; no one’s brain was running at full capacity at nearly five in the morning. 

“Just promise me that you’ll at least stay here when it gets cold out,” Max gave in with a resigned sigh. “You can sneak in the window, if you really want, but I’m pretty sure no one will mind if you use the front door.” 

Michael snorted, and bumped his knuckles into Max’s shoulder. “Deal,” he agreed earnestly, and Max hated himself a little for feeling relieved about Michael’s easy acceptance of something that no child should ever have to live through. “Can we go to sleep now, or did you want to continue this whole chick moment we’re having, here?” 

“Almost done,” Max promised with a half-hearted smirk, and rolled to his side so that he could look Michael in the face, darkness be damned. The moonlight through the window was enough so that he could make out his eyes, and that was what mattered. “I love you, Michael. You know that, right? Me and Iz, we know you’re family, even if the rest of this town is too blind to see it. And I wish I knew how to fix this.” 

The proclamation promoted nothing but stunned silence for a long, loaded moment, and Michael’s eyes darted back and forth around the room, apparently trying to avoid looking at Max. He waited it out, used to the other boy’s discomfort in the face of honest, blunt care. After a few tense moments, brown eyes landed back on Max’s face, and Michael nodded seriously once against the pillow, his curls growing even more disheveled. “I know,” he muttered quietly, then destroyed the solemnity of the moment by adding, “Do I have to hug you now, or can we just skip that and get straight to the sleeping? We’ve got to be up for school in like. . . shit, two hours.” 

Groaning, Max smacked Michael with his pillow and replaced it under his head before shifting around on the mattress to try and get comfortable. “Shut up and go to sleep, Guerin,” he grumbled, unable to keep from chuckling. “Maybe everything will look better in the morning.” 

Obviously dubious, Michael just raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He was exhausted, and probably just as tired of talking. But tomorrow was a new day, a new opportunity for Max to do better by his family, and he was damn well going to try. 

A few months later, when Michael stopped showing up when the weather turned cold, and Max saw firsthand the way his gaze trailed Alex Manes in the same way he knew his own did Liz Ortecho, some of his worry eased. He hadn’t been able to do much for Michael, but maybe, just maybe, Michael had found someone who could.


End file.
